WILLIAM  CUI1EN  BRYANT. 


Contents. 

Biography  of  William  Cullen  Bryant 171-189 

Selections  from  Bryant  190-210 

Thanatopsis  ................  190 

The  Planting  of  the  Apple-tree  193 

To  a Waterfowl  196 

Song  of  Marion’s  Men  . 198 

The  Death  of  the  Flowers  200 

The  Song  of  the  Sower  202 

Robert  of  Lincoln  208 

Illustrations : — 

Picture  of  William  Cullen  Bryant 171 

The  Old  Schoolhouse  on  the  Bryant  Farm  175 

The  House  in  Which  Thanatopsis  was  Written  ..  177 
The  Bryant  House  at  Cummington  .^... . ..  183 


Price  10  cents  a copy.  In  quantity  only  6 cents  a copy,  postpaid. 


See  list  of  Biographies  of  Great  American  Authors  on  third 
page  of  cover. 

See  list  of  Biographies  of  Great  English  Authors  on  fourth 
page  of  cover. 


Special  Request* 

If  you  find  these  Biographical  Studies  interesting  reading 
for  your  pupils  you  will  confer  a favor  on  the  publisher  by 
recommending  them  to  other  teachers  of  your  acquaintance. 

C.  M.  PARKER,  Publisher,  Taylorville,  III. 

(Copyright,  1900,  by  C.  M.  Parker.) 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT. 
1794—1878. 


It  is  not  usual  for  two  great  poets  to  come 
from  the  same  stock,  so  that  it  is  interesting  to 
know  that  Bryant,  as  well  as  Longfellow,  was 
descended  from  John  Alden  and  Priscilla  Mul- 
lens who  came  over  in  the  Mayflower  and  whose 
story  we  may  read  in  Longfellow’s  Courtship  of 


WILLIAM  CULLLN  BRYANT. 


-172- 

Miles  Standish.  There  was  a Stephen  Bryant 
on  the  Mayflower,  too,  and  the  poet  can  also 
trace  his  descent  directly  to  him. 

Dr.  Peter  Bryant,  the  father  of  the  coming 
poet,  was  a physician,  an  active  man,  fond  of 
reading,  well  versed  in  his  profession,  and  edu- 
cated beyond  the  average  man  of  his  day.  He 
read  a great  deal  of  poetry,  and  was  a very  ex- 
cellent critic.  He  was  interested  in  affairs,  and 
was  for  many  years  a member  of  the  Massaehu  - 
setts  State  legislature.  He  was  not  remarkable 
for  his  attention  to  business  details,  it  is  said, 
and  did  not  succeed  in  making,  or  at  least  in 
keeping,  any  large  amount  of  money. 

His  wife,  however,  was  of  a different  temper- 
ament, being  economical  and  industrious  in  the 
extreme.  Besides  doing  her  own  work,  as  most 
New  England  women  at  that  time  did,  she  wove 
cloth  and  made  the  clothing  for  her  entire  f am  - 
ily,  taught  her  children  to  read  and  write,  and 
was  a ministering  angel  to  all  the  sick  in  the 
neighborhood. 

William  Cullen  was  the  second  child  of  Dr. 
Peter  Bryant  and  was  born  at  Cummington, 
Massachusetts,  November  3,  1794.  He  was  a 
bright  child  but  was'  delicate  in  health)  and  had 
a head  very  much  larger  than  a young  child 
should  have.  His  father  tried  to  correct  this 
deformity  by  dipping  the  child’s  head  into  very 
cold  water  every  morning.  Whether  this  treat- 
ment was  the  correct  one  or  not,  it  is  hard  to 


pyis'dL 

—173- 

say,  but  at  any  rate  the  boy  outgrew  the  trouble. 

To  show  that  he  was  an  unusual  child  his  bi- 
ographer tells  us  that  he  walked  when  he  was  a 
year  old,  and  that  he  knew  all  of  his  letters  by 
the  time  he  was  eighteen  months  of  age.  He 
started  to  school  at  an  early  age  in  a little  wood- 
en schoolhouse  on  the  banks  of  a small  stream 
that  flowed  through  his  grandfather’s  farm.  He 
was  fond  of  school,  and  among  other  things  he 
soon  became  a good  speller.  He  liked  geography, 
but  he  could  not  get  on  well  with  the  catechism 
which  he  was  asked  to  learn.  He  liked  games, 
too,  and  it  is  said  that  he  was  a fast  runner  and 
played  ball  well,  though  he  was  not  very  vigor- 
ous or  muscular. 

It  was  at  the  Friday  afternoon  exercises  when 
he  was  a very  little  boy  that  he  recited  before 
the  minister,  the  teacher  and  his  father  one  of 
the  first  poems  that  he  had  written.  We  can 
imagine  that  it  was  no  easy  matter  for  the  sen- 
sitive bashful  child  to  stand  up  before  these  dig- 
nified and  critical  men  and  speak  his  own  poem, 
but  he  did  it  bravely  and  received  no  little  praise 
for  it.  For  turning  into  verse  the  first  chapter 
of  Job,  when  he  was  about  ten  years  old,  his 
grandfather  gave  him  a ninepence.  He  contin- 
ued to  write  verses  throughout  his  childhood, 
some  of  which  were  published  in  the  local  pa- 
pers and  brought  him  no  little  fame. 

When  he  was  but  thirteen  he  wrote  a satire 
nearly  five  hundred  lines  in  length  directed 


—174 — 

against  the  Embargo  Act  which  was  passed  dur- 
ing Jefferson’s  administration.  His  father  was 
so  proud  of  his  young  son’s  efforts  that  in  1808 
he  had  the  poem  published.  It  received  consid- 
erable praise  and  for  the  work  of  so  young  a boy 
was  truly  remarkable ; it  showed,  as  did  all  the 
poems  of  Bryant  no  matter  when  written,  care- 
ful attention  to  both  rhyme  and  metre.  The 
poet  was,  however,  not  at  all  proud  of  these  ear- 
lier verses  of  his  when,  in  later  years,  he  gave 
himself  seriously  to  poetry;  for  they  were  in 
style  unlike  the  simple  direct  method  which  he 
employed  later  and  were  so  full  of  high-sound- 
ing stilted  words  that  today  they  seem  almost 
funny. 

Cullen  was  a very  religious  little  boy  and  was 
brought  up  with  a good  deal  of  strictness.  As 
soon  as  he  could  speak,  he  says,  his  mother 
taught  him  the  Lord’s  Prayer  and  other  child- 
ren’s prayers.  One  of  the  things  for  which  he 
used  to  pray  regularly  as  a child  was  that  he 
might  be  able  to  write  poetry  well.  He  became 
discouraged  in  this  petition  after  a few  years, 
however,  and  for  some  reason  omitted  it ; but 
perhaps  the  earnest  wish  to  become  a great  poet 
had  no  small  influence  in  helping  him  to  ac- 
complish his  purpose. 

When  he  was  twelve  years  old  his  father  de  - 
cided  to  give  him  an  education,  so  he  sent  him 
to  his  uncle,  the  Rev.  Thomas  Snell,  at  North 
Brookfield,  to  study  Latin.  In  eight  months  he 


— 175 — - 

had  learned  enough  of  the  language  to  enter  the 
sophomore  class  at  Williams  College,  and  he 
was  then  put  under  the  instruction  of  Rev. 
Moses  Hallock  at  Plainfield,  Massachusetts, 
whose  house  was  known  as  the  “Bread  and  Milk 
College.”  Here  the  boy  took  up  the  study  of 
Greek.  Mr.  Hallock  had  prepared  a great  many 
boys  for  college  and,  though  he  taught  them 
well,  he  fed  them  frugally,  charging  but  a 
dollar  a week  for  board  and  tuition  because  he 
said  he  could  afford  to  do  it  for  that  and  it  would 
not  be  right  to  charge  more. 

f 


THE  OED  SCHOOEHOUSE  ON  THE  BRYANT  EARM. 
( By  permission  of  the  New  England  Magazine.) 


In  1810,  when  he  was  sixteen  years  old,  Bry- 
ant entered  the  sophomore  class  at  Williams 
College.  He  was  a tall,  slender  young  man, 
wide-awake,  quick,  with  a reputation  for  being 
stronger  than  he  really  was.  He  was  attractive 
in  his  appearance  at  this  time  and  was  much  ad- 
mired for  his  physical  skill. 


—176- 

Williams  College  did  not  then  have  a high 
standing ; for  the  work  of  the  entire  institution 
was  done  by  four  men,  one  for  each  class,  and 
was  so  poor  that  Bryant  said  the  graduates  of 
that  day  would  scarcely  have  been  prepared  to 
enter  college  today  so  great  has  been  the  change. 
As  a result  the  poet  was  not  happy  here ; he  was 
dissatisfied  with  almost  everything,  and  at  the 
end  of  two  terms  he  asked-to  be  dismissed  that 
he  might  enter  Yale. 

Much  to  his  disappointment  his  father  found 
the  expense  too  great  and  decided  that  he  could 
not  afford  to  send  his  son  to  college.  It  was  al- 
ways a regret  to  Bryant  that  he  could  not  have 
a finished  college  course.  He  felt  that  many 
things  which  he  might  have  learned,  had  he  been 
permitted  to  go  on  with  his  course,  would  have 
been  of  the  greatest  service  to  him  in  the  real 
work  of  his  life.  After  his  short  experience  at 
college  he  returned  home.  Here  he  read  most 
of  the  books  in  his  father’s  library,  not  omitting 
the  medical  works  of  which  there  were  a great 
many.  He  was  especially  fond  of  poetry  and 
became  thoroughly  familiar  with  Pope,  Burns 
and  others. 

His  time  was  not  all  taken  up  with  reading, 
however.  It  was  a poor  family  in  which  he 
lived  and  he  did  his  share  of  the  hard  work  on 
his  father’s  farm,  though  it  must  be  confessed 
that  while  doing  it  he  was  planning  for  himself 
a different  and  a more  congenial  life.  It  was 


-177- 

While  working  on  the  farm,  soon  after  his  return 
from  college,  that  he  wrote  Thanatopsis,  the 
poem  which  alone  would  have  made  him  a great 
poet.  He  usually  showed  all  that  he  wrote  to 
his  father,  hut  this  time  he  did  not  show  it  to 
anyone,  and  it  was  not  until  six  years  later  that 
his  father  discovered  it  and  sent  it  to  the  pub- 
lishers of  the  North  American  Review. 


The  Bryant  farm  was  not  a large  one,  and 
there  were  four  other  strong  active  boys  in  the 


THE  HOUSE  IN  WHICH  THANATOPSIS  WAS  WRITTEN. 
{By  permission  of  the  New  England  Magazine .) 


family,  so  that  Cullen  knew  that  his  help  was 
not  needed.  He  soon  began  to  look  about  for 
another  means  of  earning  a living.  It  did  not 
occur  to  him  that  he  could  make  his  living  by 
writing,  though  he  would  have  been  only  too 
glad  to  do  so ; at  first  he  thought  of  following 
his  father’s  profession,  but  the  hardships  of  the 
life  and  the  meager  returns  led  his  father  to  ad- 
vise a contrary  course.  Becoming  interested  in 


-i  78- 

politics,  therefore,  and  in  affairs  of  state  he 
turned  his  attention  to  the  study  of  law.  ' 

In  1811  he  entered  the  law  office  of  Mr.  Howe, 
of  Worthington,  a small  village  only  a few  miles 
from  Cummington.  He  did  not  like  the  work 
he  had  in  this  office ; for  he  found  too  few  com- 
panions and  the  town  was  small  and  uninterest- 
ing. According  to.his  own  statement  it  consist- 
ed largely  of  a blacksmith  shop  and  a cow  shed. 
He  was  too  shy  and  bashful  to  go  much  into  so  - 
ciety,  so  that  the  most  of  his  leisure  was  taken 
up  with  the  writing  of  poetry  rather  than  with 
the  study  of  law.  He  would  have  liked  to  go  to 
Boston,  but  it  was  too  expensive,  and  so  after 
talking  the  matter  over.,  with  his  father,  they 
compromised,  and  he  went  instead  to  Bridge  - 
water  where  his  grandfather  lived.  He  liked  it 
here  and  studied  hard.  However,  he  did  not 
entirely  give  up  writing  poetry. 

In  August,  1816,  he  was  admitted  to  the  Bar, 
and  the  question  of  where  he  should  work  at 
once  presented  itself.  He  still  had  a desire  to 
go  to  Boston,  but  he  was  too  bashful,  and  finally 
he  decided  to  settle  in  Plainfield,  a village  near 
the  town  where  he  was  born,  which  at  the  time 
had  perhaps  one  hundred  inhabitants.  He  stayed 
there  but  eight  months  when  he  concluded  that 
it  was  no  place  to  become  a great  lawyer  and 
that  he  must  go  somewhere  else.  Leaving 
Plainfield  for  Great  Barrington,  he  went  into 
partnership  with  a young  attorney  whose  prac- 


-179- 

tice  was  worth  perhaps  twelve  hundred  dollars  a 
year.  Within  a few  months  he  had  bought  out 
his  partner  and  carried  on  the  business  alone. 

He  still  thought  seriously  of  being  a poet,  for 
the  work  of  the  law  was  irksome  to  him  and  the 
methods  and  practices  of  the  profession  were 
not  such  as  always  pleased  him.  It  was  a great 
pleasure  to  him,  then,  when  in  1817  he  received 
a request  to  contribute  to  the  North  American 
Review.  About  this  time  his  father  found  in  a 
drawer  of  his  son’s  desk  the  manuscript  of 
“Thanatopsis”  and  of  “An  Inscription  upon  the 
Entrance  to  a Wood”  and  was  so  pleased  with 
them  that  he  at  once  took  them  to  Boston  and 
showed  them  to  his  friend,  Willard  Phillips,  ed- 
itor of  the  North  American  Review.  Soon  af- 
ter, Thanatopsis  was  published  and  Bryant  was 
asked  to  contribute  regularly  to  the  North  Amer- 
ican Review,  a request  which  pleased  him  ex- 
ceedingly, for  it  seemed  an  opening  to  him  into 
the  literary  world. 

He  was  married  in  1821  to  Miss  Fairchild,  a 
young  woman  whom  he  had  met  while  he  was 
visiting  in  Great  Barrington.  During  his  court- 
ship she  was  the  subject  of  many  poems  among 
which  was  “O,  Fairest  of  the  Rural  Maids.” 
His  home  life  was  always  a happy  one,  his  wife 
being  the  inspiration  of  much  of  his  best  work. 

In  1822  he  was  honored  by  being  asked  to  de  - 
liver  a poem  before  the  society  of  Phi  Beta  Kap- 
pa of  Harvard  University  and  for  this  occasion 


-180— 

he  wrote  “The  Ages,”  a poem  which  was  con- 
sidered to  be  the  finest  ever  written  for  that  so- 
ciety. It  was  soon  after  published  in  a small 
volume  with  seven  other  poems.  The  success 
of  this  volume  turned  his  attention  strongly 
toward  literature.  He  wrote  more  than  he  ever 
had  before  and  in  three  years  contributed  per- 
haps two  dozen  of  his  best  poems  to  the  United 
States  Literary  Gazette,  of  New  York.  It  was 
about  this  time  that  he  wrote  “The  Death  of  the 
Flowers,”  a beautiful  poem  in  memory  of  his 
young  sister  who  had  lately  died.  It  may  be  in- 
teresting to  those  who  expect  some  day  to  win  a 
fortune  through  their  writings  to  know  that  for 
this  poem  he  received  the  sum  of  two  dollars. 

He  did  not  give  up  the  law  immediately,  be- 
cause he  was  afraid  to  rely  wholly  upon  his  pen ; 
he  knew  how  badly  writers  were  paid  and  how 
hard  it  is  sometimes  for  them  to  find  a market 
for  what  they  have  to  sell.  In  1825,  however,  he 
made  up  his  mind  to  risk  literature  as  a profes- 
sion and  moved  to  New  York  where  he  became 
editor  of  the  New  York  Review  and  Atheneum 
Magazine  at  a salary  of  a thousand  dollars  a 
year.  This  amount,  he  said,  was  twice  what 
he  had  ever  made  as  a lawyer. 

He  enjoyed  his  new  work  thoroughly,  for  in 
the  life  which  he  lived  in  the  city  he  found  a 
freedom  which  he  had  not  known  in  the  prac- 
tice of  law,  and  he  became  closely  associated 
with  friends  who  were  more  agreeable  and  with 


— 181 — 

a society  more  stimulating  than  any  he  had 
known  before.  While  writing  for  the  Review 
he  increased  his  income  by  lecturing  on  English 
poetry  and  by  teaching  in  one  of  the  schools 
of  the  city.  For  several  years,  also,  he  gave  lec- 
tures on  mythology  which  were  well  received. 

Though  any  number  of  noted  men,  including 
Longfellow,  Halleck,  Poe,  and  others,  contrib- 
uted to  the  Review,  yet  it  did  not  prosper.  It 
had  a varied  career ; it  was  united  first  with  one 
journal  and  then  with  another  in  the  vain  hope 
of  prolonging  its  life,  but  it  finally  died  for  want 
of  support. 

While  wondering  what  he  should  do,  now 
that  his  connection  with  the  Review  was  sever  - 
ed, Bryant  was  offered  a temporary  position 
with  the  New  York  Evening  Post,  a position 
which  he  was  glad  immediately  to  accept.  Yery 
soon  afterward  he  was  permanently  employed 
and  bought  a one  eighth  interest  in  the  paper. 
In  1829,  on  the  death  of  Mr.  William  Coleman, 
the  editor  in  chief  of  the  Evening  Post,  Bryant 
was  tendered  the  vacant  position.  At  this  time 
he  bought  a still  larger  interest  in  the  paper  and 
thus  laid  the  foundation  of  his  later  fortune. 
For  fifty  years  he  worked  on  the  Evening  Post ; 
when  he  entered  upon  the  work  the  American 
newspaper  was  in  its  infancy;  when  he  laid 
down  his  pen,  it  had  developed  into  a power  far 
beyond  anything  that  could  reasonably  have 
been  expected  of  it. 


-182- 


In  this  work,  as  in  all  others  that  he  had  un- 
dertaken, he  was  no  loiterer;  he  gave  all  his 
time  to  the  paper;  he  was  the  first  one  at 
the  office  in  the  morning,  working  with  the 
greatest  care  that  his  reputation  as  a poet  might 
not  suffer  through  what  he  did  as  a newspaper 
writer.  His  editorials  were  the  strongest  at- 
traction in  the  paper,  and  though  they  seldom 
filled  more  than  a column,  they  were  character- 
ized by  such  simplicity,  directness,  clearness 
and  force,  that  they  attracted  a wide  class  of 
readers. 

In  1831  he  published  a second  volume  of 
poems.  He  brought  out  this  edition  also  in 
England  where  he  was  under  very  great  obliga- 
tions to  W ashington  Irving.  Mr.  Irving  brought 
the  poems  before  the  attention  of  a reputable 
publisher,  and  by  writing  a short  introduction 
to  the  work  succeeded  in  attracting  considerable 
attention  from  the  English  people.  Mr.  Bryant 
never  realized  a large  amount,  however,  from 
this  publication,  three  hundred  dollars  be- 
ing perhaps  a generous  estimate  of  his  returns. 

One  of  the  great  delights  of  Bryant’s  life  was 
to  travel.  The  first  long  journey  that  he  took 
was  in  1832  when  he  came  to  western  Illinois  to 
visit  his  brother  John.  It  was  at  the  time  of 
the  Black  Hawk  War,  and  he  met,  on  his  jour- 
ney, a tall  awkward  looking  young  man  who  was 
in  charge  of  a company  of  troops  marching  to 
the  scene  of  conflict,  and  who  interested  the 


-183- 

poet  by  his  droll  and  characteristic  stories.  It 
was  the  young  Abraham  Lincoln  whom  he  did 
not  see  again  until  thirty  years  later  when,  as  a 
candidate  for  the  presidency,  he  addressed  a po- 
litical meeting  over  which  Bryant  presided. 

It  was  at  the  end  of  this  same  year  that  Bry- 
ant made  his  first  trip  to  Europe,  remaining 
abroad  two  years  and  visiting  France,  Italy  and 
Germany.  He  was  charmed  by  the  beauty  of 
the  landscape  of  France  and  attracted  most  of 
all  in  Italy  by  the  clear  sky. 


THE  BRYANT  HOUSE  AT  CUMMINGTON. 

(. By  permission  of  The  New  England  Magazine.) 


On  his  return  from  Europe  he  found  the  Ev- 
ening Post  in  a very  bad  financial  state.  It  was 
necessary  for  him  to  give  his  whole  time  and  at- 
tention to  the  management  of  the  paper  so  that 
he  had  no  time  for  poetry,  little  opportunity  for 
leisure,  and  could  concern  himself  with  nothing 
but  work.  His  whole  efforts  were  directed  to- 
ward getting  the  paper  on  a paying  basis  again 
He  lived  simply  and  worked  as  hard  as  he  was 
able . He  was  often  discouraged  during  the  strug- 
gles of  these  years,  and  would  have  been  glad 


-184— 

to  give  up  newspaper  work  and  to  devote  him- 
self to  poetry,  "but  his  affairs  were  in  such  con- 
dition that  this  wras  impossible . He  even  thought 
at  one  time  of  coming  to  Illinois  where  his  broth- 
er John  lived,  to  try  his  fortune  in  what  was 
then  a very  undeveloped  country.  He  stuck  to 
it,  however,  and  in  a few  years  succeeded  in  re- 
covering the  ground  he  had  lost  while  in  Eng- 
land, so  that  the  paper  later  yielded  him  an  in- 
come of  from  ten  thousand  to  seventy  thousand 
dollars  a year. 

From  the  time  when  he  was  a little  boy,  ex- 
ploring the  hills  around  his  native  town,  he  had 
loved  nature  and  the  country,  so  that  in  1843  he 
bought  for  himself  a country  house  at  Roslyn,  a 
little  village  on  Long  Island  overlooking  the 
Sound.  It  was  a beautiful  mansion  surrounded 
by  a small  tract  of  land  and  overhung  on  every 
side  by  huge  trees.  Here  he  managed  for  two 
or  three  days  of  every  week  to  steal  away  from 
the  toil  of  the  city  and  to  rest  quietly  at  his  own 
fireside.  This  house  might  have  been  called 
the  “Poet’s  House”  because  in  it  he  never  al- 
lowed himself  to  do  any  work  for  the  newspa- 
per with  which  he  was  connected,  but  concern- 
ed himself  only  with  poetry  which  he  loved  best. 
When  asked  once  to  seek  the  quiet  of  Roslyn  to 
prepare  an  article  for  the  New  York  Evening 
Post,  he  resented  the  suggestion  strongly  and 
insisted  upon  doing  it  in  the  office  where  all  his 
work  for  the  newspaper  had  been  executed. 


-185— 

It  was  a very  simple  life  that  he  lived.  While 
at  Great  Barrington  he  had  found  himself  in 
frail  health ; he  had  not  inherited  a vigorous 
constitution  from  his  ancestors,  and  when  he 
went  to  New  York  he  found  it  necessary  to  give 
up  all  stimulants,  even  tea  and  coffee.  In  order 
to  keep  himself  in  good  health  he  took  regular 
exercise,  ordinarily  an  hour  and  a half  every 
morning  before  breakfast.  He  rose  at  five,  or 
at  the  latest  at  half  past  five  in  the  morning,  ate 
the  simplest  food,  did  a great  deal  of  manual  la- 
bor, and  so  prolonged  his  life  considerably  be- 
yond the  allotted  three -score  and  ten  years. 
Even  up  to  the  time  of  his  death  he  continued 
the  most  vigorous  exercise  every  day.  During 
his  residence  in  New  York  he  lived  quite  three 
miles  from  his  place  of  business,  and  until  he 
gave  up  work  entirely  he  insisted  upon  walking 
this  distance  twice  a day. 

He  did  not  practice  law  long  enough  to  become 
noted  as  an  attorney,  yet  he  did  develop,  even 
in  the  few  years  that  he  was  in  the  work,  a dis- 
tinct ability  as  an  orator.  He  was  eloquent  and 
was  much  in  demand  as  a speaker.  On  the 
death  of  Cooper,  of  Irving,  and  of  Halleck,  he 
delivered  addresses  in  commemoration  of  these 
literary  men  that  are  models  of  style . He  did  not 
often  try  to  speak  extemporaneously,  but  when 
he  had  time  wrote  out  his  addresses  and  com- 
mitted them  to  memory.  He  said  that  although 
he  had  relied  upon  his  memory  a great  many 


-136- 

times  that  it  never  failed  him  but  once,  and  that 
was  near  the  close  of  his  life  when  he  was  tired 
by  hard  work. 

Though  he  had  been  brought  up  a Federalist, 
politically  Bryant  was  a Democrat.  He  was 
never  a violent  abolitionist,  but  when  it  became 
necessary  for  him  to  write  upon  the  subject  of 
slavery,  he  attacked  it  with  vigor  and  openness. 
He  was  always  outspoken  and  never  let  his  busi- 
ness interests  interfere  with  the  full  expression 
of  what  he  thought  to  be  right.  Though  for 
more  than  a half  century  before  the  public  as 
an  editor,  he  never  held  a public  office  worthy 
of  the  name.  True,  he  had  been  tithing -man 
and  justice  of  the  peace  at  Great  Barrington, 
but  these  offices  were  too  insignificant  to  men- 
tion. He  did  not  care  for  public  office,  but  felt 
rather  that  hi  s great  work  was  to  influence  pub  - 
lie  opinion.  In  characterizing  himself  he  said 
that  the  three  most  irksome  things  for  him  were 
to  owe  money,  to  ask  a favor,  and  to  seek  an 
acquaintance. 

In  1864,  when  he  was  seventy  years  of  age, 
the  Century  Club  of  New  York,  of  which  he  was 
a member,  gave  a dinner  in  his  honor.  Ban  - 
croft,  the  historian,  presided,  and  a large  num- 
ber of  prominent  men  of  the  country  were  pres- 
ent. Poems  were  read  by  Holmes,  Bayard  Tay- 
lor, and  others,  and  congratulations  were  re- 
ceived from  Whittier,  Lowell,  Longfellow,  Ed- 
ward Everett,  and  scores  of  other  great  Ameri- 


—187- 

cans.  When  he  was  eighty  years  of  age  there 
was  a general  celebration  of  the  event  all  over 
the  country,  and  he  was  presented  with  a costly 
vase  in  commemoration  of  his  great  literary  at- 
tainments. 

In  1866,  hoping  that  the  health  of  his  wife 
might  be  benefited  by  the  change,  he  bought  the 
old  farm  at  Cummington  on  which  he  had  been 
born,  and  fixed  it  up  beautifully.  It  was  with- 
out avail,  for  the  change  did  not  benefit  Mrs. 
Bryant  and  she  died  on  July  27th  of  that  year. 
Her  death  was  a severe  loss  to  him  for  she  had 
been  his  most  helpful  critic  and  his  constant 
companion.  She  was  the  only  intimate  friend 
he  ever  had,  he  said,  and  when  she  was  gone  he 
had  no  other. 

After' the  death  of  Mrs.  Bryant  the  poet  felt 
the  need  of  some  active  work  to  keep  his  mind 
employed  and  he  turned  to  the  translation  of 
Homer.  He  worked  regularly  at  this  transla- 
tion, doing  at  least  forty  lines  a day.  He  was 
occupied  upon  the  Iliad  until  1870  when  the 
work  was  published.  Although  he  recognized 
the  fact  that  he  was  perhaps  too  old  a man  ever 
to  finish  it,  he  immediately  began  upon  a trans- 
lation of  the  Odyssey.  The  fact  of  his  great  age 
and  his  realization  of  the  few  years  that  were  left 
to  him,  caused  him  to  hurry  more  than  he  would 
have  been  likely  otherwise  to  do,  so  that  within 
less  than  two  years  he  had  completed  theOd- 
dyssey.  It  was  published  in  an  attractive. form, 


— 188— 

and  from  this  translation,  together  with  the  first 
one  that  he  had  made,  he  realized  more  profit 
than  had  ever  come  to  him,  perhaps,  from  all 
the  rest  of  his  poetry.  Within  a short  time  his 
profits  accruing  from  the  royalty  which  he  re- 
ceived from  these  translations  amounted  to  more 
than  seventeen  thousand  dollars. 

In  1876  he  was  asked  to  compose  a poem  for 
the  opening  exercises  of  the  Centennial  Exhibi- 
tion at  Philadelphia.  He  realized  that  he  was 
not  a poet  to  write  for  occasions;  his  inspira- 
tions did  not  come  to  him  always  at  his  bidding. 
In  addition  to  this  fact,  too,  he  thought  himself 
too  old  to  assume  so  great  a responsibility,  and 
he  declined  the  invitation.  The  poem  was  af- 
terward written  by  Bayard  Taylor. 

Bryant  continued  to  work  almost  up  to  the  time 
of  his  death . On  May  29, 1878,  he  delivered  an  ad  - 
dress  at  the  unveiling  of  a statute  of  Mazzini,  the 
Italian  patriot.  He  was  tired,  but  insisted  on 
walking  some  distance  with  his  friend  Mr.  James 
Grant  Wilson.  As  they  were  ascending  the 
steps  of  the  latter’s  house  he  became  suddenly 
dizzy  and  fell,  striking  his  head  on  the  stone 
step.  He  lingered  for  two  weeks  and  died  on 
June  12,  1878. 

It  was  the  ending  of  a noble  simple  life.  He 
had  been  a man  who  had  never  sought  notoriety ; 
all  the  fame  that  ever  came  to  him  came  with- 
out his  working  for  it . He  was  pure  and  stead  - 
fast  in  his  character,  virtuous,  and  reliable  in 


-189- 

all  that  he  did,  and  his  life  might  well  be  held 
up  as  an  example  of  how  men  ought  to  live. 
The  ceremonies  were  in  All  Soul’s  Church 
where  he  had  worshiped  for  many  years,  and 
in  the  beautiful  month  of  June,  as  he  had  wished 
for  himself,  they  laid  him  to  rest  in  the  grave- 
yard at  Roslyn. 

As  a poet  Bryant,  as  much  as  any  American, 
desired  constantly  to  teach  a moral  lesson.  His 
purpose  was  to  elevate  his  fellowmen  and  to 
make  them  better  by  keeping  before  them  high 
ideals.  Sometimes  we  feel  that  he  has  been  too 
insistent  in  his  purpose  and  might  better  have 
been  content  simply  to  please  rather  than  to 
instruct.  He  is  a meditative  poet,  and  frequent- 
ly these  meditations  have  to  do  with  death.  So 
often  is  this  true  that  he  has  sometimes  been  called 
the  Poet  of  Mortality,  and  it  has  been  urged  that 
the  most  he  has  written  may  well  be  named 
Thanatopsis, — a view  of  death.  But  he  shows 
us  other  moods ; his  verse  is  filled  with  a love  of 
nature  and  not  seldom  runs  over  with  the  joy  of 
doing  right.  He  wrote  very  few  long  poems 
and  he  showed  a maturity  of  thought  at  eighteen 
years  that  had  not  weakened  at  eighty.  The 
first  great  poet  of  America  he  will  always  re- 
main among  her  most  noted  literary  figures. 

Thomas  Arkle  Clark, 
University  of  Illinois. 


190- 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WILLIAM  CULLEN 
BRYANT. 


THANATOPSIS. 

I. 

To  him  who,  in  the  love  of  Nature,  holds 
Communion  with  her  visible  forms,  she  speaks 
A various  language ; for  his  gayer  hours 
She  has  a voice  of  gladness,  and  a smile 
And  eloquence  of  beauty ; and  she  glides 
Into  his  darker  musings  with  a mild, 

And  healing  sympathy,  that  steals  away 
Their  sharpness,  ere  he  is  aware. 

II. 

When  thoughts 

Of  the  last  bitter  hour  come  like  a blight 

Over  thy  spirit,  and  sad  images 

Of  the  stern  agony,  and  shroud,  and  pall, 

And  breathless  darkness,  and  the  narrow  house, 
Make  thee  to  shudder  and  grow  sick  at  heart ; 
Go  forth  under  the  open  sky,  and  list 
To  Nature’s  teaching,  while  from  all  around — 
Earth  and  her  waters,  and  the  depth  of  air — 
Comes  a still  voice : 

III. 

“Yet  a few  days,  and  thee 
The  all -beholding  sun  shall  see  no  more 


-191- 

In  all  his  course ; nor  yet  in  the  cold  ground, 
Where  thy  pale  form  was  laid  with  many  tears, 
Nor  in  the  embrace  of  ocean,  shall  exist 
Thy  image.  Earth,  that  nourished  thee,  shall 
claim 

Thy  growth,  to  be  resolved  to  earth  again ; 

And,  lost  each  human  trace,  surrendering  up 
Thine  individual  being,  shalt  thou  go 
To  mix  forever  with  the  elements, 

To  be  a brother  to  the  insensible  rock, 

And  to  the  sluggish  clod  which  the  rude  swain 
Turns  with  his  share,  and  treads  upon. 

IY. 

“The  oak 

Shall  send  his  roots  abroad  and  pierce  thy  mold. 
Yet  not  to  thine  eternal  resting-place 
Shalt  thou  retire  alone ; nor  couldst  thou  wish 
Couch  more  magnificent.  Thou  shalt  lie  down 
With  patriarchs  of  the  infant  world,  with  kings, 
The  powerful  of  the  earth,  the  wise,  the  good, 
Fair  forms,  and  hoary  segrs  of  ages  past 
All  in  one  mighty  sepulchre. 

“The  hills, 

Rock-ribbed,  and  ancient  as  the  sun;  the  vales 
Stretching  in  pensive  quietness  between, 

The  venerable  woods,  rivers  that  move 
In  majesty,  and  the  complaining  brooks  [all, 
Thatmake  the  meadows  green,  and,  poured  round 
Old  ocean’s  gray  and  melancholy  waste, 


-192- 

Are  but  the  solemn  decorations  all 

Of  the  great  tomb  of  man.  The  golden  sun, 

The  planets,  all  the  infinite  host  of  heaven, 

Are  shining  on  the  sad  abodes  of  death, 
Through  the  still  lapse  of  ages. 

VI. 

“All  that  tread 

The  globe  are  but  a handful  to  the  tribes 
That  slumber  in  its  bosom.  Take  the  wings 
Of  morning,  and  the  Barcan  desert  pierce, 

Or  lose  thyself  in  the  continuous  woods, 

Where  rolls  the  Oregon,  and  hears  no  sound 
Save  its  own  dashings : yet  the  dead  are  there ; 
And  millions  in  those  solitudes,  since  first 
The  flight  of  years  began,  have  laid  them  down 
In  their  last  sleep:  the  dead  reign  there  alone. 

VII. 

“So  shalt  thou  rest;  and  what  if  thou  withdraw 
In  silence  from  the  living,  and  no  friend 
Take  note  of  thy  departure?  All  that  breathe 
Will  share  thy  destiny.  The  gay  will  laugh 
When  thou  art  gone,  the  solemn  brood  of  care 
Plod  on,  and  each  one,  as  before,  will  chase 
His  favorite  phantom ; yet  all  these  shall  leave 
Their  mirth,  and  their  employments,  and  shall 
come 

And  make  their  bed  with  thee.  As  the  long  train 
Of  ages  glides  away,  the  sons  of  men — 

The  youth  in  life’s  green  spring,  and  he  who  goes 
In  the  full  strength  of  years,  matron,  and  maid, 


-193- 

And  the  sweet  babe,  and  the  gray -headed  man — 
Shall,  one  by  one,  be  gathered  to  thy  side 
By  those  who  in  their  turn  shall  follow  them. 

VIII. 

“So  live  that  when  thy  summons  comes  to  join 
The  innumerable  caravan  which  moves 
To  that  mysterious  realm  where  each  shall  take 
His  chamber  in  the  silent  halls  of  death, 

Thou  go  not,  like  the  quarry -slave  at  night, 
Scourged  to  his  dungeon,  but  sustained  and 
soothed 

By  an  unfaltering  trust,  approach  thy  grave 
Like  one  who  wraps  the  drapery  of  his  couch 
About  him,  and  lies  down  to  pleasant  dreams!” 


THE  PLANTING  OF  THE  APPLE-TREE. 

I. 

Come,  let  us  plant  the  apple-tree. 

Cleave  the  tough  greensward  with  the  spade ; 
Wide  let  its  hollow  bed  be  made ; 

There  gently  lay  the  roots,  and  there 
Sift  the  dark  mold  with  kindly  care, 

And  press  it  o’er  them  tenderly, 

As  round  the  sleeping  infant’s  feet, 

We  softly  fold  the  cradle -sheet; 

So  plant  we  the  apple-tree. 

II. 

What  plant  we  in  this  apple-tree? 

Buds,  which  the  breath  of  summer  days 
Shall  lengthen  into  leafy  sprays ; 


Boughs  where  the  thrush,  with  crimson  breast, 
Shall  haunt  and  sing  and  hide  her  nest ; 

We  plant,  upon  the  sunny  lea, 

A shadow  for  the  noontide  hour, 

A shelter  from  the  summer  shower, 

When  we  plant  the  apple-tree. 

III. 

What  plant  we  in  this  apple -tree? 

Sweets  for  a hundred  flowery  springs 
To  load  the  May-wind’s  restless  wings, 

When,  from  the  orchard  row,  he  pours 
Its  fragrance  through  our  open  doors ; 

A world  of  blossoms  for  the  bee, 

Flowers  for  the  sick  girl’s  silent  room, 

For  the  glad  infant  sprigs  of  bloom, 

We  plant  with  the  apple-tree. 

IY. 

What  plant  we  in  this  apple-tree? 

Fruits  that  shall  swell  in  sunny  June, 

And  redden  in  the  August  noon, 

And  drop,  when  gentle  airs  come  by, 

That  fan  the  blue  September  sky, 

While  children  come,  with  cries  of  glee, 
And  seek  them  where  the  fragrant  grass 
Betrays  their  bed  to  those  who  pass, 

At  the  foot  of  the  apple-tree. 

Y. 

And  when,  above  this  apple-tree, 

The  winter  stars  are  quivering  bright. 

And  winds  go  howling  through  the  night. 


-195- 

Girls,  whose  young  eyes  o’erflow  with  mirth, 
Shall  peel  its  fruit  by  cottage  hearth, 

And  guests  in  prouder  homes  shall  see, 
Heaped  with  the  grape  of  Cintra’s  vine 
And  golden  orange  of  the  line, 

The  fruit  of  the  apple-tree. 


YI. 

The  fruitage  of  this  apple-tree, 
Winds  and  our  flag  of  stripe  and  star 
Shall  bear  to  coasts  that  lie  afar, 

Where  men  shall  wonder  at  the  view, 
And  ask  in  what  fair  groves  they  grew ; 

And  sojourners  beyond  the  sea 
Shall  think  of  childhood’s  careless  day 
And  long,  long  hours  of  summer  play, 

In  the  shade  of  the  apple-tree. 


VII. 

Each  year  shall  give  this  apple-tree 
A broader  flush  of  roseate  bloom, 

A deeper  maze  of  verdurous  gloom, 

And  loosen,  when  the  frost -clouds  lower, 
The  crisp  brown  leaves  in  thicker  shower. 

The  years  shall  come  and  pass,  but  we 
Shall  hear  no  longer,  where  we  lie, 

The  summer’s  songs,  the  autumn’s  sigh, 

In  the  boughs  of  the  apple-tree. 


Y III. 

And  time  shall  waste  this  apple-tree. 
Oh,  when  its  aged  branches  throw 
Thin  shadows  on  the  ground  below, 


—196— 

Shall  fraud  and  force  and  iron  will 
Oppress  the  weak  and  helpless  still? 

What  shall  the  tasks  of  mercy  be, 

Amid  the  toils,  the  strifes,  the  tears 
Of  those  who  live  when  length  of  years 
Is  wasting  this  little  apple-tree? 

IX. 

“Who  planted  this  old  apple  tree?” 

The  children  of  that  distant  day 
Thus  to  some  aged  man  shall  say ; 

And,  gazing  on  its  mossy  stem, 

The  gray -haired  man  shall  answer  them: 
“A  poet  of  the  land  was  he, 

Born  in  the  rude  but  good  old  times ; 

’Tis  said  he  made  some  quaint  old  rhymes, 
On  planting  the  apple-tree.” 


TO  A WATERFOWL. 

I. 

Whither,  midst  falling  dew, 

While  glow  the  heavens  with  the  last  steps  of  day, 
Far,  through  their  rosy  depths,  dost  thou  pursue 
Thy  solitary  way? 

II. 

Vainly  the  fowler’s  eye 

Might  mark  thy  distant  flight  to  do  thee  wrong, 
As,  darkly  painted  on  the  crimson  sky, 

Thy  figure  floats  along. 


-197- 

III. 

Seek’st  thou  the  plashy  brink 
Of  weedy  lake,  or  marge  of  river  wide, 

Or  where  the  rocking  billows  rise  and  sink 
On  the  chafed  ocean  side? 

IY. 

There  is  a Power  whose  care 
Teaches  thy  way  along  that  pathless  coast — 
The  desert  and  the  illimitable  air — 

Lone  wandering,  but  not  lost. 

Y. 

All  day  thy  wings  have  fanned, 

At  that  far  height,  the  cold,  thin  atmosphere, 
Yet  stoop  not,  weary,  to  the  welcome  land, 
Though  the  dark  night  is  near. 

YI. 

And  soon  that  toil  shall  end ; 

Soon  shalt  thou  find  a summer  home,  and  rest, 
And  scream  among  thy  fellows ; reeds  shall  bend, 
Soon,  o’er  thy  sheltered  nest. 

YII. 

Thou’rt  gone,  the  abyss  of  heaven 
Hath  swallowed  up  thy  form ; yet,  on  my  heart 
Deeply  hath  sunk  the  lesson  thou  hast  given, 
And  shall  not  soon  depart. 

YIII. 

He  who,  from  zone  to  zone, 

Guides  through  the  boundless  sky  thy  certain 
flight, 

In  the  long  way  that  I must  tread  alone, 

Will  lead  my  steps  aright. 


-198- 

SONG  of  Marion’s  men. 

I. 

Our  band  is  few,  but  true  and  tried,  our  leader 
frank  and  bold : 

The  British  soldier  trembles  when  Marion’s 
name  is  told. 

Our  fortress  is  the  good  greenwood,  our  tent  the 
cypress -tree  : 

We  know  the  forest  round  us,  as  seamen  know 
the  sea; 

We  know  its  walls  of  thorny  vines,  its  glades  of 
reedy  grass, 

Its  safe  and  silent  islands  within  the  dark 
morass. 

II. 

Woe  to  the  English  soldiery  that  little  dread  us 
near ! 

On  them  shall  light  at  midnight  a strange  and 
sudden  fear ; 

When,  waking  to  their  tpnts  on  fire,  they  grasp 
their  arms  in  vain, 

And  they  who  stand  to  face  us  are  beat  to  earth 
again ; 

And  they  who  fly  in  terror  deem  a mighty  host 
behind, 

And  hear  the  tramp  of  thousands  upon  the  hol- 
low wind. 

III. 

Then  sweet  the  hour  that  brings  release  from 
danger  and  from  toil ! 


-199- 

We  talk  the  battle  over  and  share  the  battle’s 
spoil ; 

The  woodland  rings  with  laugh  and  shout,  as  if 
a hunt  were’up, 

And  woodland  flowers  are  gathered  to  crown 
the  soldier’s  cup. 

With  merry  songs  we  mock  the  wind  that  in 
the  pine -top  grieves, 

And  slumber  long  and  sweetly  on  beds  of  oaken 
leaves. 

IV. 

Well  knows  the  fair  and  friendly  moon  the  band 
that  Marion  leads, — 

The  glitter  of  their  rifles,  the  scampering  of 
their  steeds. 

’Tis  life  to  guide  the  fiery  barb  across  the  moon- 
lit plain ; 

’Tis  life  to  feel  the  night -wind  that  lifts  his 
tossing  mane : 

A moment  in  the  British  camp, — a moment,  and 
away 

Back  to  the  pathless  forest  before  the  peep  of 
day. 

Y. 

Grave  men  there  are  by  broad  Santee,  grave 
men  with  hoary  hairs,— 

Their  hearts  are  all  with  Marion,  for  Marion 
are  their  prayers. 

And  lovely  ladies  greet  our  band  with  kindliest 
welcoming, 


—200— 

With  smiles  like  those  of  summer  and  tears  like 
those  of  spring. 

For  them  we  wear  these  trusty  arms,  and  lay 
them  down  no  more, 

Till  we  have  driven  the  Briton  forever  from 
our  shore. 


THE  DEATH  OE  THE  FLO  WEES. 

I. 

The  melancholy  days  are  come,  the  saddest  of 
the  year, 

Of  wailing  winds,  and  naked  woods,  and  mead- 
ows brown  and  sear. 

Heaped  in  the  hollows  of  the  grove  the  autumn 
leaves  lie  dead ; 

They  rustle  to  the  eddying  gust  and  to  the  rab- 
bit’s tread. 

The  robin  and  the  wren  are  flown,  and  from 
the  shrubs  the  jay,^ 

And  from  the  wood -top  calls  the  crow  through 
all  the  gloomy  day. 

II. 

Where  are  the  flowers,  the  fair  young  flowers, 
that  lately  sprang  and  stood 

In  brighter  light  and  softer  airs,  a beauteous 
sisterhood? 

Alas ! they  all  are  in  their  graves : the  gentle 
race  of  flowers 

Are  lying  in  their  lowly  beds,  with  the  fair  and 
good  of  ours. 


-201- 

The  rain  is  falling  where  they  lie ; but  the  cold 
November  rain 

Calls  not  from  out  the  gloomy  earth  the  lovely 
ones  again. 

III. 

The  wind-flower  and  the  violet,  they  perished 
long  ago, 

And  the  brier -rose  and  the  orchis  died  amid  the 
summer’s  glow; 

But  on  the  hill  the  golden -rod,  and  the  aster  in 
the  wood, 

And  the  yellow  sunflower  by  the  brook  in  au- 
tumn beauty  stood, 

Till  fell  the  frost  from  the  clear  cold  heaven,  as 
falls  the  plague  on  men, 

And  the  brightness  of  their  smile  was  gone  from 
upland,  glade,  and  glen. 

IY. 

And  now,  when  comes  the  calm,  mild  day,  as 
still  such  days  will  come, 

To  call  the  squirrel  and  the  bee  from  out  their 
winter  home ; 

When  the  sound  of  dropping  nuts  is  heard, 
though  all  the  trees  are  still, 

And  twinkle  in  the  smoky  light  the  waters  of 
the  rill, 

The  south  wind  searches  for  the  flowers  whose 
fragrance  late  he  bore, 

And  sighs  to  find  them  in  the  wood  and  by  the 
stream  no  more. 


—202— 

Y. 

And  then  I think  of  one  who  in  her  youthful 
beauty  died, — 

The  fair,  meek  blossom  that  grew  up  and  faded 
by  my  side. 

In  the  cold,  moist  earth  we  laid  her,  when  the 
forest  cast  the  leaf, 

And  we  wept  that  one  so  lovely  should  have  a 
life  so  brief; 

Yet  not  unmeet  it  was  that  one  like  that  young 
friend  of  ours, 

So  gentle  and  so  beautiful,  should  perish  with 
the  flowers. 

/ , 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  SOWER. 

I. 

The  maples  redden  in  the  sun^jiA 
In  autumn  gold  the  beeches  stand ; 

Rest,  faithful  plow ! thy  work  is  done 
Upon  the  teeming  land. 

Bordered  with  trees  whose  gay  leaves  fly 

On  every  breath  that  sweeps  the  sky, 

The  fresh  dark  acres  furrowed  lie, 

And  ask  the  sower’s  hand. 

II. 

Loose  the  tired  steer,  and  let  him  go 

To  pasture  where  the  gentians  blow ; 

And  we  who  till  the  grateful  ground, 

Fling  we  the  golden  shower  around. 


—203 — 

III. 

Fling  wide  the  generous  grain ; we  fling 
O’er  the  dark  mold  the  green  of  spring. 

For  thick  the  emerald  blades  shall  grow 
When  first  the  March  winds  melt  the  snow, 
And  to  the  sleeping  flowers,  below, 

The  early  bluebirds  sing. 

IV. 

Fling  wide  the  grain ; we  give  the  fields 
The  ears  that  nod  in  summer  gale, 

The  shining  stems  that  summer  gilds, 

The  harvest  that  o’erfiows  the  vale, 

And  swells,  an  amber  sea,  between 

The  full -leaved  woods — it’s  shores  of  green. 

V. 

Hark ! from  the  murmuring  clods  I hear 
Glad  voices  of  the  coming  year — 

The  song  of  him  who  binds  the  grain, 

The  shout  of  those  that  load  the  wain, u- 
And  from  the  distant  grange  there  comes 
The  clatter  of  the  thresher’s  flail, 

And  steadily  the  millstone  hums 
Down  in  the  willowy  vale. 

VI. 

And  strew  with  free  and  joyous  sweep 
The  seed  upon  the  expecting  soil, 

For  hence  the  plenteous  year  shall  heap 
The  garners  of  the  men  who  toil.  d 
Strew  the  bright  seed  for  those  who  tear 
The  matted  sward  with  spade  and  share ; 


V 


-204— 

And  those  whose  sounding  axes  gleam 
Beside  the  lonely  forest  stream 
Till  its  broad  banks  lie  bare ; 

And  him  who  breaks  the  quarry  ledge 
With  hammer  blows  plied  quick  and  strong, 
And  him  who  with  the  steady  sledge 
Smites  the  shrill  anvil  all  day  long. 

VII. 

Sprinkle  the  furrow’s  even  trace 
For  those  whose  toiling  hands  uprear 
The  roof -trees  of  our  swarming  race, 

By  grove  and  plain,  by  stream  and  mere; 
Who  forth,  from  crowded  city,  lead 
The  lengthening  street,  and  overlay 
Green  orchard -plot  and  grassy  mead 
With  pavement  of  the  murmuring  way. 

Cast  with  full  hands,  the  harvest  cast, 

For  the  brave  men  that  climb  the  mast, 

When  to  the  billow  and  the  blast, 

It  swings  and  stoops,  with  fearful  strain, 
And  bind  the  fluttering  mainsail  fast, 

Till  the  tossed  bark  shall  sit  again 
Safe  as  a sea-bird  on  the  main. 

VIII. 

Fling  wide  the  grain  for  those  who  throw 
The  clanking  shuttle  to  and  fro, 

In  the  long  row  of  humming  rooms, 

And  into  ponderous  masses  wind 
The  web  that,  from  a thousand  looms, 

Comes  forth  to  clothe  mankind. 


t 


-S05- 

Strew,  with  free  sweep,  the  grain  for  them, 

By  whom  the  busy  thread 
Along  the  garment’s  even  hem 
And  winding  seam  is  led ; 

A pallid  sisterhood,  that  keep 
The  lonely  lamp  alight, 

In  strife  with  weariness  and  sleep, 

Beyond  the  middle  night. 

Large  part  he  theirs  in  what  the  year 
Shall  ripen  for  the  reaper  here. 

IX. 

Still  strew,  with  joyous  hand,  the  wheat 
On  the  soft  mold  beneath  our  feet, 

For  even  now  I seem 
To  hear  a sound  that  lightly  rings 
From  murmuring  harp  and  viol’s  strings, 

As  in  a summer  dream. 

X. 

Scatter  the  wheat  for  shipwrecked  men, 

Who,  hunger-worn,  rejoice  again 
In  the  sweet  safety  of  the  shore, 

And  wanderers,  lost  in  woodlands  drear, 

Whose  pulses  bound  with  joy  to  hear 
The  herd’s  light  bell  once  more. 

XI. 

Freely  the  golden  spray  be  shed 
For  him  whose  heart,  when  night  comes  down 
On  the  close  alleys  of  the  town, 

Is  faint  for  lack  of  bread. 

In  chill  roof -chambers,  bleak  and  bare, 


1 


— 206 — 

Or  the  damp  cellar’s  stifling  air, 

She  who  now  sees,  in  mute  despair, 

Her  children  pine  for  food, 

Shall  feel  the  dews  of  gladness  start 
To  lids  long  tearless,  and  shall  part 
The  sweet  loaf  with  a grateful  heart, 

Among  her  thin,  pale  brood. 

Dear,  kindly  Earth,  whose  breast  we  till ! 

Oh,  for  thy  famished  children,  fill, 

Where’er  the  sower  walks, 

Fill  the  rich  ears  that  shade  the  mold 
With  grain  for  grain,  a hundredfold, 

To  bend  the  sturdy  stalks ! 

XII. 

Strew  silently  the  fruitful  seed, 

As  softly  o’er  the  tilth  ye  tread, 

For  hands  that  delicately  knead 
The  consecrated  bread — 

The  mystic  loaf  that  crowns  the  board, 
When,  round  the  table  of  their  Lord, 

Within  a thousand  temples  set, 

In  memory  of  the  bitter  death 
Of  Him  who  taught  at  Nazareth, 

His  followers  are  met. 

And  thoughtful  eyes  with  tears  are  wet, 

As  of  the  Holy  One  they  think, 

The  glory  of  whose  rising  yet 
Makes  bright  the  grave’s  mysterious  brink. 

XIII. 

Brethren,  the  sower’s  task  is  done ; 

The  seed  is  in  its  winter  bed : 


-207- 

Now  let  the  dark -brown  mold  be  spread, 

To  hide  it  from  the  sun, 

And  leave  it  to  the  kindly  care 
Of  the  still  earth  and  brooding  air, 

As  when  the  mother,  from  her  breast, 

Lays  the  hushed  babe  apart  to  rest, 

And  shades  its  eyes,  and  waits  to  see 
How  sweet  its  waking  smile  will  be. 

The  tempest  now  may  smite,  the  sleet 
All  night  on  the  drowned  furrow  beat, 

And  winds  that,  from  the  cloudy  hold, 

Of  winter  breathe  the  bitter  cold, 

Stiffen  to  stone  the  mellow  mold, 

Yet  safe  shall  lie  the  wheat; 

Till,  out  of  heaven’s  unmeasured  blue, 

Shall  walk  again  the  genial  year, 

To  wake  with  warmth  and  nurse  with  dew 
The  germs  we  lay  to  slumber  here. 

XI Y. 

Oh,  blessed  harvest  yet  to  be! 

Abide  thou  with  the  Love  that  keeps, 

In  its  warm  bosom,  tenderly, 

The  Life  which  wakes  and  that  which  sleeps. 
The  Love  that  leads  the  willing  spheres 
Along  the  unending  track  of  years, 

And  watches  o’er  the  sparrow’s  nest, 

Shall  brood  above  thy  winter  rest, 

And  raise  thee  from  the  dust,  to  hold 

Light  whisperings  with  the  winds  of  May, 
And  fill  thy  spikes  with  living  gold, 


— 208— 

From  summer’s  yellow  ray; 

Then,  as  thy  garners  give  thee  forth, 

On  what  glad  errands  shalt  thou  go, 
Wherever,  o’er  the  waiting  earth, 

Roads  wind  and  rivers  flow ! 

The  ancient  East  shall  welcome  thee 
To  mighty  marts  beyond  the  sea, 

And  they  who  dwell  where  palm -groves  sound 
To  summer  winds  the  whole  year  round, 

Shall  watch,  in  gladness,  from  the  shore, 

The  sails  that  bring  thy  glistening  store. 


ROBERT  OF  LINCOLN. 

I. 

Merrily  swinging  on  briar  and  weed, 

Near  to  the  nest  of  his  little  dame, 

Over  the  mountain -side  or  mead, 

Robert  of  Lincoln  is  telling  his  name : 
Bob-o’-link,  bob-o’-link, 

Spink,  spank,  spink, 

Snug  and  safe  is  this  nest  of  ours, 

Hidden  among  the  summer  flowers. 

Chee,  chee,  chee. 

II. 

Robert  of  Lincoln  is  gaily  dressed, 

Wearing  a bright  black  wedding -coat; 
White  are  his  shoulders,  and  white  his  crest, 
Hear  him  call  in  his  merry  note : 
Bob-o’-link,  bob-o’-link, 

Spink,  spank,  spink, 


-209- 

Look,  what  a nice  new  coat  is  mine ; 

Sure  there  was  never  a bird  so  fine. 

Chee,  chee,  chee. 

III. 

Robert  of  Lincoln’s  Quaker  wife, 

Pretty  and  quiet,  with  plain  brown  wings, 
Passing  at  home  a patient  life, 

Broods  in  the  grass  while  her  husband  sings 
Bob-o’-link,  bob-o’-link, 

Spink,  spank,  spink, 

Brood,  kind  creature;  you  need  not  fear 
Thieves  and  robbers  while  I am  here. 

Chee,  chee,  chee. 

IY. 

Modest  and  shy  as  a nun  is  she ; 

One  weak  chirp  is  her  only  note ; 

Braggart  and  prince  of  braggarts  is  he, 
Pouring  boasts  from  his  little  throat ; 
Bob-o’-link,  bob-o’-link, 

Spink,  spank,  spink, 

Never  was  I afraid  of  man, 

Catch  me,  cowardly  knaves,  if  you  can. 

Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Y. 

Six  white  eggs  on  a bed  of  hay, 

Flecked  with  purple,  a pretty  sight  : 

There  as  the  mother  sits  all  day, 

Robert  is  singing  with  all  his  might : 
Bob-o’-link,  bob-o’-link, 

Spink,  spank,  spink, 

Nice  good  wife  that  never  goes  out, 


-210- 

Keeping  house  while  I frolic  about. 

Chee,  cliee,  chee. 

VI. 

Soon  as  the  little  ones  chip  the  shell, 

Six  wide  mouths  are  open  for  food ; 
Robert  of  Lincoln  bestirs  him  well, 
Gathering  seeds  for  the  hungry  brood ; 
Bob -o’ -link,  bob -o’ -link, 

Spink,  spank,  spink, 

This  new  life  is  likely  to  be 

Hard  for  a gay  young  fellow  like  me. 

Chee,  chee,  chee. 

VII. 

Robert  of  Lincoln  at  length  is  made 
Sober  with  work,  and  silent  with  care, 
Off  is  his  holiday  garment  laid, 

Half  forgotten  that  merry  air : 
Bob-o’-link,  bob-o’-link, 

Spink,  spank,  spink, 

Nobody  knows  but  my  mate  and  I, 

Where  our  nest  and  our  nestlings  lie. 

Chee,  chee,  chee. 

VIII. 

Summer  wanes : the  children  are  grown ; 

Fun  and  frolic  no  more  he  knows ; 
Robert  of  Lincoln’s  a humdrum  crone ; 
Off  he  flie§,  and  we  sing  as  he  goes : 
Bob-o’-link,  bob-o’-link, 

Spink,  spank,  spink, 

When  you  can  pipe  that  merry  old  strain, 
Robert  of  Lincoln,  come  back  again. 

Chee,  chee,  chee. 


wmn  0.  OF  I.  U1BM 


BIOGRAPHIES  OF 
GREAT  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 


Written  especially  for  School  Reading  by  Thomas  Arkle 
Clark  of  the  University  of  Illinois. 


Description  and  Size. 

Each  booklet  contains  32  to  40  pages,  neatly  printed  in 
clear,  readable  type  and  bound  in  attractive  paper  cover. 

Contents. 

The  first  eighteen  to  twenty  pages  of  each  booklet  gives 
an  interesting  biographical  sketch  of  the  author,  written  es- 
pecially for  school  reading.  The  remaining  pages  contain 
from  three  to  six  noted  selections  from  the  author  to  be 
studied  in  connection  with  the  biographical  sketch. 

Illustrations. 

Each  booklet  contains  three  or  more  appropriate  illus- 
trations, such  as  a picture  of  the  author,  birthplace,  home,  etc. 
Some  of  the  pictures  are  of  historic  interest. 

List  of  Biographies  of  Great  American  Authors. 

To  date  biographies  of  the  following  American  authors 
have  been  published,  each  in  a separate  booklet:— 

No.  1.  John  Greenleaf  Whittier; 

No.  2.  Washington  Irving; 

No.  3.  Daniel  Webster; 

No.  4.  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow; 

No.  5.  William  Cullen  Bryant; 

No.  6.  Nathaniel  Hawthorne; 

No.  7.  Edgar  Allan  Poe; 

No.  8.  James  Fenimore  Cooper; 

No.  9.  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes; 

No.  10.  Benjamin  Franklin; 

No.  11.  James  Russell  Lowell; 

No.  12.  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson; 

No.  13.  Alice  and  Phoebe  Cary. 

Biographies  of  other  American  author®  will  be  added  to 
above  list  later. 

Price. 

Single  copy  of  any  Biography,  10  cents,  postpaid;  in 
quantity  of  five  or  more,  only  6 cents  a copy,  postpaid. 

Send  all  orders  direct  to 

C.  M.  PARKER,  Publisher,  Taylorville,  Illinois. 

(See  list  of  Biographies  of  English  Author®  on  next  page.) 

' ' : - '■  - -■  ■ 1 :<$i 


BIOGRAPHIES  OF 


GREAT  ENGLISH  AUTHORS. 


Written  especially  for  school  reading  by  Thomas  Arkle 
Clark  of  the  University  of  Illinois. 


Description  and  Size. 

Each  booklet  contains  32  pages,  neatly  printed  in  clear, 
readable  type,  and  bound  in  attractive  paper  cover. 

Contents. 

The  first  eighteen  to  twenty  pages  of  each  booklet  gives 
an  interesting  biographical  sketch  of  the  author,  written  es- 
pecially for  school  reading.  The  remaining  pages  contain 
from  three  to  six  noted  selections  from  the  author,  to  be 
studied  in  connection  with  the  biographical  sketch, 

Illustrations. 

Each  booklet  contains  three  or  more  appropriate  illus- 
trations, such  as  a picture  of  the  author,  birthplace,  etc. 
Some  of  the  pictures  are  of  historic  interest. 

List  of  Biographies  of  Great  English  Authors. 


There  are  twelve  booklets  in  this  series  as  follows 
No.  1.  Daniel  Defoe; 

No.  2.  Joseph  Addison; 

No.  3.  Oliver  Goldsmith; 

No.  4.  Robert  Southey; 

No.  5.  William  Wordsworth; 

No.  6.  Robert  Bums; 

No.  7.  John  Keats; 

No.  8.  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley ; 

No.  9.  Sir  Walter  Scott; 

No.  to.  Charles  Lamb; 

No.  11.  Alfred  Tennyson; 

No.  12.  Charles  Dickens. 


Price. 

Single  copy  of  any  Biography,  10  cents,  postpaid;  in 
quantity  of  five  or  more,  only  6 cents  a copy,  postpaid. 

Send  all  orders  direct  to 

C.  M.  PARKER,  Publisher,  Taylorville,  Illinois. 

(See  list  of  Biographies  of  American  Authors  on  preceding 
page.) 


